


i've come to burn your kingdom down

by MercutioLives



Category: Arthurian Mythology, Arthurian Mythology & Related Fandoms
Genre: Angst, Blood and Gore, Canon-Typical Violence, Family Drama, Family Dynamics, Father-Son Relationship, Gay Male Character, Gen, Holy Grail, M/M, Matricide, Protective Siblings, Religion, Siblings, Trans Male Character, War
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-03-07
Updated: 2021-03-07
Packaged: 2021-03-13 20:40:56
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 5
Words: 3,615
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29906772
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MercutioLives/pseuds/MercutioLives
Summary: A collection of Mordred-centric drabbles written in response to various different ask prompts over on Tumblr. In most cases, titles of chapters are the prompts themselves, and I'll post links to the original prompt lists when I can find them. Posted in no particular order.Title of the collection is from "Seven Devils" by Florence + the Machine because it's my Mordred Song Of Choice.
Relationships: Arthur & Mordred (Arthurian), Galahad/Mordred (Arthurian), Orkney Siblings (Arthurian)
Comments: 5
Kudos: 8





	1. "things you said that i wish you hadn’t."

**Author's Note:**

> This one came from the ever-amazing Bria ([paladinical](https://paladinical.tumblr.com/) on Tumblr). The original list can be found [here](https://mordredoforkney.tumblr.com/post/164462143920/prompts-1-things-you-said-at-1-am-2-things).

"I'm leaving." Mordred forced the words out, just as he forced himself to look his brother in the eye as he said them.

Gawain was barely thirty years old, but he looked as though he had aged a decade overnight. Mordred thought he could see hints of silver in his thick, red beard where there were none before, and exhaustion in his normally bright blue eyes. He saw these things, and knew they were his doing. Guilt did battle in the pit of his stomach with desperation.

"You can’t mean that," Gawain said, his tone weary rather than angry, which somehow made everything worse. "You took an oath, Mordred, to serve the King, to serve the realm -"

"And if the two cannot coexist? When serving the King means helping to drive the realm to ruin, which do I choose? The rest of them are content to turn a blind eye to his pride, but I’m not - and I know that you aren’t, either. We have to do something." Mordred rubbed agitatedly at the long scar that ran the length of his face’s right side, from temple to unbearded jaw. When the wound was struck, Gawain had told him once that it made him look fierce rather than hideous, and while he knew it wasn’t true, he had appreciated the effort.

"And what do you propose we do?"

"Speak with Cynric. Treat with him, and make an ally of him before he decides to take up where his father left off." Both Mordred and Gawain had been born after Badon Hill, where the Saxon king Cerdic had been defeated, slain by Arthur himself, but they had both heard plenty of stories from men who had been there. It was that battle, some said, more than any magical sword or mysterious prophecy, that had made Arthur a king. If only that young king were with them now, Mordred thought grimly.

"Absolutely not." Gawain sounded horrified, and Mordred looked up from his thoughts. "Arthur has already refused the envoy. Going behind his back would be treason." There it was. That word again. It made his stomach turn, every time it was bandied about. He crossed his arms over his chest and arched a brow, trying his best to look cavalier rather than furious.

"Is that all? I thought we had decided that treason was quite alright. You know, when the good Sir Lancelot had his way with the Queen, broke his oaths, and murdered our brothers. Do you remember that, or is stroking my father’s ego more important to you than the fact that he declined to let us seek justice against the man who cuckolded him before the entire court?"

He regretted the words as soon as they flew from his mouth, but it was too late now to take them back. He watched Gawain’s expression morph, bypassing fury and settling into despair. In his life, he had seen Gawain truly angry only a handful of times. Not one of those occasions had been directed at him or any of their brothers: not even at Gaheris, who murdered their mother. Perhaps he was incapable of it.

For the second time, he caught himself thinking that anger would be preferable.

"If you do this, Mordred, you must know that you’ll be making an enemy of everyone. Even me." The finality with which Gawain delivered his decision resonated with a gravity most regal. Arthur had chosen his heir well: his second-eldest nephew could make a pronouncement feel like the falling of an axe, and for the first time, Mordred questioned whether he was really doing the right thing. But he had come too far to turn back now. He would see this farce through to the bitter end, even if it meant such a loss.

"Perhaps my treason will be taken more seriously. Is that vanity, do you think? To hope that it is my betrayal, and not Lancelot’s, that opens his eyes at last?" There was no more ferocity left in him, all of it draining away in an instant. Gawain’s arms closed around him, dragging him close in a familiar, ursine embrace. This, too, possessed a finality against which he could not argue. He had no choice but to return it and will his courage not to break.

By dawn the next morning, Mordred had fled the city, and with him half the Round Table and the soldiers they commanded. Of the ones that stayed behind, only Gawain knew the reason why, and he prayed that his silence - his own small treason - would keep his brother safe.


	2. "do you know what you’ve done?"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TRIGGER WARNING: violence, gore, implied incest.
> 
> Another prompt from [Bria](https://paladinical.tumblr.com/).

There was so much blood. All of the brothers had seen their fair share of it over the years, much of it spilled by their own hands, but somehow, there seemed so much more than usual flowing from the headless body of their mother. The four of them (Gareth was absent, too busy with his work in the kitchens to join them on their northward journey) stood silent, save the panting breaths of Gaheris, covered in no small amount of Morgause’s blood himself, and Agravaine, who held him fast. None of them knew quite what to do or say, so they said nothing for a long time. Lamorak had gone, fleeing for his life like a coward rather than staying to take any sort of vengeance. Outside, the wind whipped high like a scream.

"Do you know what you’ve done?" Predictably, it was Gawain who spoke first. His voice trembled, though it was impossible to tell whether that was from fear, grief, or rage. He took Gaheris’ head in both of his hands, jerking it upward so their eyes met. Gaheris looked empty, his green eyes blank of thought and feeling; Gawain, on the other hand, had so much of both that he could do nothing for fear of bringing his brother to harm.

"I’ve defended Mother’s honor," Gaheris replied matter-of-factly, his words as bland and hollow as his expression. He was mad, that much was clear to them all. Agravaine kept his arms tight around his twin, silent for once. Gawain clenched his fists at his sides, willing himself not to strike Gaheris or reach for his blade. At length, Mordred moved apart from the pack, stopping just short of where Morgause’s severed head lay, still frozen in an expression of shock. Steeling himself, he bent and picked it up, struggling against the urge to vomit as he carried it gently over to the blood-soaked bed wherein lay her body. She was naked, her torso exposed. As carefully as he could, he placed the head upon the pillow; he took the blanket, sodden though it was, and pulled it up to cover her.

"We cannot stay here." His voice was strained, his teeth practically chattering, though not with cold. "Lamorak will have made for either Camelot or Listenoise. If the former, we must outpace him or we’ll all be for the headsman’s axe."

Gawain and Agravaine both stared at their eldest brother in disbelief, but Gawain eventually nodded in agreement, recovering something of his bearings.

"You’re right. You’re right. But we cannot have Gaheris with us when we do. Agravaine, you will take him and ride for Gorre. You and he will remain there with Aunt Morgan until we send word that it’s safe. Mordred and I will return to Camelot." Agravaine said nothing, but nodded his understanding. Gaheris remained still and silent, making no attempt to escape. None of the brothers could look at him, each struggling in their own ways to reconcile the instinct to protect their brother and the urge to avenge their mother.

Agravaine and Gaheris were the first to leave, while Gawain and Mordred remained behind to clean up as best they could. By the time they had finished, it was far too dark to ride, and they were forced to spend the night in their childhood home. If nothing else, they were grateful that their old room was far from the Queen’s chambers. Neither of them slept, but nor did they say a word, lost in their thoughts and unable to erase the image of Morgause’s beheading from their minds.

They rode out at dawn, neither of them willing to linger long enough even to break their fast or see their mother buried. They pretended it was because they were short on time, but truly, neither of them could look at her without feeling a wave of guilt for protecting her murderer.

"She would have wanted us to keep him safe," Gawain said out of the blue, once they were an hour out of sight of the castle. "She’d have wanted the same for any of us."

Mordred said nothing; they both knew it was a lie, so what was the point? They rode several more hours in silence, stopping only once it was too dark to see.


	3. "i can’t do this on my own."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This prompt came from my darling Julia ([sickburnsides](https://archiveofourown.org/users/talefeathers) on Tumblr). Original prompt list can be found [here](https://mordredoforkney.tumblr.com/post/183229311860/angstfluff-prompt-list).

"I can't do this on my own."

The words were quiet, almost meek-sounding when they broke the silence. Because of this, Mordred didn’t know how to respond to them, and was grateful that the darkness concealed his uncertainty. The ship rocked beneath them like a cradle on the ocean, the sounds of creaking wood and lapping water a tuneless lullaby to match it, and for a while that was all that filled the air. Gawain was never one for many words at the best of times; when it meant showing weakness, he was even less so. 

The two of them were close in age, barely more than a year apart, though their natures could not have been further opposite. Even so, Mordred liked his younger half-brother much more than he thought he should, given the circumstances.

"You don’t have to," he said finally, deciding on the kind lie that he knew Gawain was hoping to hear. "Your father may have sent me along to get rid of me, but I’m still by your side."

The straw mattress shifted in the gloom beside him, and Gawain’s voice and body heat were suddenly closer than they had been a moment ago.

"He didn’t -" This lie didn’t even take its first breath, although it was meant out of the same sort of kindness. Gawain wasn’t a liar. Mordred heard him settle back down with a heavy, frustrated sigh.

"It doesn’t matter. It’s for the best that I didn’t stay behind, don’t you think? I may not be destined for the same greatness as you, but I don’t want to be cooped up on that tiny island forever, like Mother."

Another kind lie. Or perhaps this one, Mordred thought, would be unkind in the end. He was destined for greatness, after a fashion. After all, great did not always mean good.

"It doesn’t matter," he repeated. "Let’s get some sleep. Should only be a day or two more before we reach Camelot."

A soft grunt of assent was the only reply he received, and before long, the dark was filled with the sound of Gawain’s snores. It took Mordred much longer to drift off, his mind occupied with everything that would be changing in a few days’ time. His brother was destined to be a fine knight, perhaps one of the best there ever was. As for himself? Well… There was nothing to be done about that. All he could do now was lie there and mourn the impending demise of the bond between the two of them, for Camelot was sure to devour it whole.


	4. "all i wanted was for you to be happy."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TRIGGER WARNING: injuries, death, war.
> 
> This one was prompted by my wife Vivian. Link to the prompt list can be found in the notes of the previous chapter. It may be one of my favorites out of these drabbles, tbh.

Mordred had never quite gotten accustomed to the heat of the southern summers: their sticky humidity, the oppression of storms that threatened but refused to break, the incessant attack of biting insects. Even worse when one was struggling for one’s life on the battlefield, surrounded by dead and dying friends whose final words were to curse one’s name. 

The fighting was far from over, but Arthur’s forces had won the day and sent his army for the hills - at least for the time being - to lick their wounds both literal and metaphorical. Mordred stretched out on his cot with a wad of old linens pressed to his side: he’d rejected the attention of the camp medic with harsher words than perhaps had been necessary, but he wasn’t in the frame of mind to be a good patient just then.

Closing his eyes, he tried to ignore his thoughts and the heat, and focus solely on stopping the blood from leaking out of his body. It was a spectacular failure, as each lance of pain only summoned forth the memories of what had happened that afternoon. The image of Arthur, resplendent in full armor, his dragon banner waving high, would be burned into his mind for however long he had left to live. To see the man in all his former glory was truly a sight to behold, even if that very sight also inspired in him all manner of revulsion and regret.

The next several days brought exchanges of messengers and offers of truce. Mordred’s pride rankled at the very thought, but he knew that he could not win, not now that Lancelot had joined Arthur’s ranks. It was surrender or death, and for all he was more than happy to throw all of his good sense to the wind and rush headlong into his own dark destiny, he had his men to think of. Those who still lived would follow him into battle, perhaps, but he would be making just as free and easy with their trust as his father had. And wasn’t that counter to the point?

They met early in the morning, and although the sun had not yet fully risen above the horizon, the air was still close and damp. Neither of them were armed or armored when they approached one another ("a show of good faith," Arthur had said in his final missive), but it was clear that war had taken its toll on them both. A few paces away, Lancelot and Bedivere stood ready to intervene, should things go sour.

Mordred looked dead into eyes that might have been a mirror of his own, had things been different. To his credit, it was a long time before Arthur looked away.

"Thank you for taking the time to meet me." For the first time, the old king sounded his age; it was all Mordred could do not to flinch on hearing the grating rasp in his voice. He tried not to search it for tenderness.

"I had no choice. We both know that I stand no chance against you now, and I’ll not risk what’s left of my men for pride." What was meant to come out as a scathing barb betrayed only exhaustion. Arthur nodded, and there was silence for a while.

"You’re wounded." Mordred thought, perhaps, he detected a hint of concern in the observation, but he chose not to think on it overmuch. Still, a hand wandered up to where he had finally permitted the medic to patch him up.

"It’ll heal, so long as it doesn’t fester. Shall we get down to business, then? How am I to die? If it were up to me, a sharp blade and a strong arm would be best. Nothing that lingers, like a hanging. And by the gods, don’t burn me."

Arthur stared at him, wide-eyed. He looked utterly baffled, and it took him several moments to collect himself enough to compose an answer.

"I had no intention of executing you. You came to surrender, so perhaps an agreement can be reached."

It was as if the words turned his blood to acid, burning beneath his skin with rage he was only able to bite back due to the sight of the armed men just over Arthur’s shoulder. Even so, his disposition darkened.

"I didn’t come for special treatment. I came to spare my men the pain and drudgery of a battle they’re sure to lose. You’ve already forgiven one traitor." Here, he looked pointedly across at Lancelot, who was eyeing him with no small amount of disdain. "Don’t make the same mistake twice. You’d do better to kill me now and reap the glory, if you don’t want to see me executed before a crowd. But why deny your people the pleasure of seeing Mordred the Traitor brought to justice?"

Arthur shook his head, as though at a particularly ignorant child. The exhaustion in the set of his shoulders was almost depressing, but Mordred was too intent on getting his point across (and on ignoring his own emotions) to let himself care. The same exhaustion seeped into every cranny of his voice, which had yet to lose any of its hoarseness.

"Are you so intent on using me as a tool for your destruction? I never thought of you as a coward - I’ve heard the talk, save your witty remarks - but if your aim is to goad me into murdering you, as if by doing so it would justify your self-loathing, perhaps I misjudged you." This time, it was Mordred who didn’t know what to say. Arthur took his inability to respond as permission to continue.

"You think I’m a fool, and perhaps you’re right, but I’m not blind. I know how you’ve nursed that prophecy, like it’s the one thing giving you purpose in life. And some of the blame for that lies with me, I do confess it. I may not have been a good father to you -" He held up a hand, forestalling the remark that now jumped to Mordred’s lips, "- but that doesn’t mean I didn’t care for you. All I wanted was for you to be happy, my son. I have little left in this life to care for. Please don’t take more of it away from me."

Rattled, Mordred nodded, but kept his silence. His throat was painfully tight, his vision beginning to blur as he blinked back undesired wetness. It was a struggle to discuss terms of surrender after hearing such a speech, but he managed, and in the end, the two of them walked away with something like satisfaction. Mordred would not die, but would spend the rest of his days in exile. Those of his men who agreed to once more swear fealty would be forgiven - Mordred’s one and only request, which Arthur was happy to grant - and the rest would share Mordred’s sentence.

There was a strange heaviness to the realization that the prophecy he had spent his entire life dreading, fighting, and ultimately embracing, had not come to pass. Instead, it had fizzled out with nothing more than a scolding from his father. Why, then, did it feel like he had lost everything?

Three years later, the news of Arthur’s death reached him. No one told him directly, for no one in the small fishing village that he now called home knew who he was; he merely overheard it while he was pulling his boat in for the day. He couldn’t tell whether he felt nothing or everything, for his only reaction was to put his head down and continue with his work while trying hard not to listen. If a tear or two mingled with the seawater that dripped from his hair onto his face, who would be able to tell?


	5. "this isn't goodbye."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Surprisingly, this is the first Galahad/Mordred fic I've come across in my ask tag. All of the others so far have been Orkney bros / Pendragon family-oriented.
> 
> Prompted by [professorbumblebee](https://professorbumblebee.tumblr.com/) on Tumblr. Link to the prompt list is in chapter two.

It was written all over Galahad’s face - his stupidly beautiful, infuriating face - that he actually believed he would come back from this thrice-damned suicide quest of his. From the hope and faith in his huge, brown eyes to the love that stretched his too-broad mouth even broader, there wasn’t a trace of doubt that he meant those words: This isn’t goodbye.

Gods above, if only he knew.

If only he knew about the countless dreams Mordred had woken from in the dead of night, awash in a cold sweat, ears ringing with the echoes of cries that hadn’t yet been uttered. But for all that he could be cruel and dismissive towards Galahad’s religious convictions, he wasn’t so cruel as to open that box of demons. This quest was what Galahad believed to be his purpose in life, his destiny. It wasn’t Mordred’s place to steal it away from him, even if he did know the truth of it.

"I’ll wait for you, then," he said, and tried his hardest to sound like he meant it. "Don’t go falling for some maiden as pure as the driven snow and forget me, or whatever such nonsense happens on these kinds of quests."

Galahad had the good grace to look suitably offended by the mere prospect of such a thing, and even touched one sun-brown hand to his chest in demonstration of how scandalized he felt.

"Have you so little faith in me? Perhaps this is blasphemous to say, but… If I didn’t have to do this - if the command had come from anyone less than God - I might not have done it at all. But it’s what I was made for, and I can’t betray my purpose now. I know you understand."

It was said with such innocence that Mordred knew it hadn’t been meant to cut as deeply as it had done, but all the same, he felt something within him flinch. Nevertheless, he didn’t - couldn’t - resist when Galahad pulled him into a tight embrace. Warm wetness soaked into the crook of his neck, and it was all he could do not to break down and beg Galahad to stay.

"Don’t be away too long," is what he murmured instead. "I can’t do without you."

The first few nights after Galahad’s departure, Mordred refused to sleep for fear of the dreams that waited to remind him of what he had failed to prevent.


End file.
